Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  He ceased. His hands were still extended above the people, while they, gazing up at him in mingled wonder and awe, saw his face so transfigured by the light of his soul’s inspiration, that it seemed to have gained an almost supernatural beauty. Then, — as he, with a gentle solemnity, pronounced the benediction, they sank low on their knees, and for several minutes remained absorbed in prayer, many of them weeping audibly.

  When at last they rose to disperse, they did so in a strange, unusual silence, — men walked out with carefully hushed steps, and women moved softly, making no secret of their tears as they filed slowly past the freshly-laid turf that covered Azalea’s small grave, where many wreaths and posies, newly gathered by the children of the village, lay in lovely profusion. Strangers paused in the churchyard, anxious to see the Vicar as he came out, but their curiosity was not gratified, as he had a private way of his own from the vestry to the Vicarage through the back of his garden, and of that he availed himself. Squire Hazlitt, who, in the usual ‘Riviera season’ absence of his wife and family, had made a point of coming back from Paris to attend the first service taken by Everton since his terrible bereavement, stood in the church porch waiting for his carriage, and made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was blowing his nose and wiping his eyes vigorously, — for, as he afterwards expressed it, he had been quite ‘bowled over’ by the pathos and simplicity of the Vicar’s appeal to his parishioners. To him, one of the wandering tourists, a young man of rather refined appearance, ventured to address the remark —

  “You have a wonderful preacher in this out-of-the-way place, sir!”

  The Squire looked at him chillingly, without reply.

  “I beg your pardon!” and the young man colored a little as he realized that this county magnate evidently considered he was taking a liberty in addressing him— “But — I am reporting this sermon for the press, — and I thought you might possibly be interested — you are Mr. Hazlitt?”

  “I am.”

  “Then as the patron of the living, you must naturally feel proud of the present Vicar? Of course, what he has said to-day is bound to make him famous.”

  “Indeed!” And the Squire looked grimly dubious. “What use will that be to him?”

  The journalist smiled deprecatingly.

  “Surely fame is often useful? Especially to a preacher!”’

  “You may think so — I don’t!” Here the Squire drove his walking-stick into the ground by way of pointing an emphasis to his words— “Fame isn’t understood as fame in these days. If the world makes much of a man because he’s clever, you journalists are the first to run him down and say he’s ‘advertising himself.’ The managers of modern journalism always suspect some unworthy motive behind the work of every good intellect. They’d have called Christ Himself a ‘self-advertiser,’ if He had appeared in this century. Richard Everton was always a fine preacher, but it has taken no less than the murder of his wife for a discerning press to find it out!”

  With that the old gentleman got into his carriage which had just come up, and drove away.

  The journalist was a trifle taken aback. He looked around and saw that three or four men of the farmer type had! been lingering near and had heard the conversation.

  “Rather a plain-speaking old chap, your Squire!” he said carelessly. One of the men gave a slow smile.

  “We’se all plain-speakin’ on the Cotswolds,” — he replied— “An’ Squire ain’t nowt ahint us. Be ye goin’ to put parson’s sermon i’ the papers, mister?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then the whole world’ll see it, I s’pose?”

  “Well!” and the young press man smiled condescendingly, “Perhaps not the whole world, but a very great portion of it. Our circulation is six times as large as that of any other daily paper.”

  At this all the men burst into a laugh.

  “That’s right! Keep up the advertisement! You earn your money while you may, mister! Go it strong!”

  And with another guffaw of laughter they strolled off. For a moment disconcerted, the journalist looked puzzled and half angry, — then he laughed too.

  “Evidently these chaps don’t believe in advertised sales,” — he said— “I wonder if they at all represent the general feeling of the rustic population?”

  He went on his way considering whether he should make an attempt to see the Vicar personally, and get from him a few notes of what he had said that morning, in order to compare them with his own shorthand memoranda, — but a certain latent sense of good feeling held him back from this intention, as well as the more practical idea, which was well-nigh a certainty, that if he did succeed in obtaining an interview, Everton would probably forbid any publication of his sermon at all. And this would completely frustrate his hopes, for he had been commissioned by his editor-in-chief to use extra special care in getting a good report, as Mrs. Nordstein, wife of one of the several Jew shareholders in his newspaper, had expressed herself as curious to know what the Vicar of Shadbrook had to say to his parishioners after the terrible tragedy that had made havoc of his happiness, and it was understood that if he repeated the proceedings faithfully, it would be to his advantage. Indeed, he was himself aware of that — for Mrs. Nordstein ruled the whole business of the office, socially and morally, — what she wished was done, — what she objected to was not done. The dream of the young journalist was to get an invitation to one of Mrs. Nordstein’s ‘At Homes,’ where he might gaze critically and unreproved upon the charms of ‘the most beautiful woman of her day,’ as she was always carefully styled by the special newspaper on which he earned a precarious living. What interest she had in Shadbrook or its Vicar he could not imagine, nor did he trouble to inquire, — it was enough for him to know that if her expressed wishes were satisfactorily carried out, it was possible that he might stand in better favor with his editor.

  The rest of that Sunday passed quietly away, unmarked save for one unusual incident, which was, that though both public-houses in Shadbrook were opened after church time they had no customers. The village appeared to have retired within itself and closed its doors against all intruders. The sunlight lay in broad warm patches over the hill and fields, — there was a joyous singing of birds everywhere, and no discordant sounds or sights marred the peaceful beauty of the day. There was an afternoon service at the church, but Everton entrusted this and the duties of the Sunday school to his temporary assistant, the mild young curate before mentioned, for he found himself more overwrought than he had imagined would be possible after his effort of the morning. He was also a little troubled in his own mind, questioning whether after all he had done well in making a direct appeal to his congregation. It is dangerous to be too honest and straightforward in this world. If you go straight to a given point, you are sure to brush up against people making for the same place round sly corners, and if you chance to knock down these ‘dodgers’ they never forgive you. Yet in his innermost conscience, Everton did not actually regret having spoken as his heart had dictated. It might be a mistake, or it might not, from a conventional point of view, — but then, what he sought most to fight against was this very ‘conventionalism,’ which takes all the warmth of humanity out of religion and makes it a mere dead formula. He had resolved to combat it in every possible way, — and he had made a beginning. Think as he would, argue with himself as he would, there was something within his soul that burned like a consuming fire — something that clamored for utterance and that would be bound to utter itself before long, even if he died for it!

  “I cannot,” — he half whispered to the silence— “I cannot look on at the growing apathy and atheism of the world and offer no protest! I must declare the message of Christ anew, even if the people of this generation have come to think it such an old, old message that they are tired of hearing it. For if I do not speak as I feel I am commanded to speak, I am but a trader in the Gospel, not a minister of its truth.”

  This expression ‘trader in the Gospel’ which had leaped
involuntarily into his brain, gave him a moment’s pause. Was it not all a question of ‘trade’? The Pope and his myrmidons, — was not the keeping up of all the magnificent ritual of Rome more a matter of money than anything else? And the Church of England? Did not every ambitious clergyman hope for a ‘rich’ living? — for a ‘comfortable’ settlement in material rather than spiritual things? And were methods of work which involved personal considerations of convenience and well-being, the methods enjoined by Christ? On the contrary, they were directly opposed to His teaching.

  “We are all on the wrong road,” he thought sorrowfully— “And the difficulty before us is to struggle back through the labyrinth we have ourselves made, to the right one. There must be bolder, more direct and fearless teaching; our human ‘theologies’ are misleading clouds which veil the face of Christ!”

  Next day Sebastien Douay came to see him.

  “I could not wait for you any longer,” — said the little priest, pressing his hand warmly— “You told me you would come to me when you were conquered, or had conquered. Well! — the fight is over — you are the victor! I give you the laurel! But you have trampled me in the battle, my friend! — no matter!”

  “Trampled you?” echoed Everton, amazed— “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Do you not see? Where is my mission Catholique? Where do I make my converts? What converts are there to make? There are two or three — but there will be no more, — not if you go on preaching as you preached yesterday! You will draw all the people — all!” He laughed a little — then sighed. “Ah well! I will report progress to my superiors! I will tell them there is a real preacher here in the Cotswold district — a real one — not a sham! And so long as he speaks of Christ there will be no chance for St. Peter!”

  “But, my dear good friend,” said Everton, touched and perplexed by his whimsically plaintive manner— “What difference can it make to you? I said nothing in my sermon yesterday that could appeal to any person outside Shadbrook.”

  “Outside Shadbrook there are several wider Shadbrooks!” and Douay gave an expressive gesture— “But it is possible you have not seen the morning’s papers?”

  “The morning’s papers? No.”

  “Ah! That explains it! And whether you will care for it or not is a question, but your sermon is printed in them all, — and you are, for the time being, famous! Yes, my poor dear friend! — you are no longer the obscure scholar, peacefully preaching to a handful of villagers — your voice is ringing through the world!”

  “But how?” — and the Vicar looked as he felt, pained and bewildered— “God knows I have had enough of journalism! — and yesterday I spoke to no one — I gave no report—”

  “What you do not give the reporters take,” — said Douay— “and however it has happened, it is done! You are an acknowledged personage! And Shadbrook is proud! Shadbrook is reading all its halfpenny dailies this morning, and to see its Vicar named as a great and rising man, makes it feel great and rising itself. But for me — alas! My poor little tin chapelle will be empty! One honest Christian minister is so rare that he is enough to command a large district! Two are not needed! You see now, my friend, where your great Church of England stands or falls? On its ordained ministers! If every preacher belonging to the country’s national faith spoke to the people as you have spoken, from his heart, — or let us say, if every preacher had a heart to speak from, there would be no weakening, but rather strengthening, — and the Holy Father would lose all his English revenues! It is only the lukewarmness and laxity of your Church’s own conduct that opens the door to Rome!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  AFTER his sudden, almost involuntary outpouring of un-premediated eloquence, which, addressed only to the parishioners of Shadbrook, had reached so wide an audience that it had in very truth made him famous, Richard Everton found himself snatched up, as it were, by masterful hands invisible and plunged into a vortex of work. The days rushed by as they had never rushed before, — for domestic happiness accompanied by monotonous tranquillity, is apt to make time drag the pace with lame and leaden feet. Nothing is so slow as the complete equanimity of persons and surroundings, — it is the existence of the carefully cultured vegetable untroubled by so much as a slug. When life is hurled into battle, confronted by enemies, tossed and driven between the rival forces of heaven and hell, then only is it life indeed, — then only do the formerly lagging hours take to themselves light wings as on the heels of Mercury, and fly with a rushing speed and a flame of glorious vitality that knows no pause and no fatigue. Everton, living through the daily routine of a quiet country cleric, devoted to his wife and child, and seeing very little for himself beyond the enchanted circle of his own home made radiant by the pretty Azalea’s gayety and charm, had never thoroughly realized that his very happiness was narrowing his outlook and cramping his energies, though he was vaguely conscious that something was lacking to his full ability, but what it was he had never entirely determined. Now that the twin furies of Death and Despair had stormed his paradise, they had left its gates open, — and the world rushed in, — the tired, doubting, suffering, angry world, full of its own sorrows, its own disappointments, its own ambitions, — a world that cried to him:— “You, O man, who continue to preach of faith and hope in the midst of desolation and anguish, give me some of the comfort you give to yourself! Lo, I, too, am drunken and despairing and murderous! — I, too, have loved and lost, — I, too, have laid my beloved ones in the worm-infested earth, — I, too, have blasphemed God and shrieked at Him: ‘Where art Thou!’ Tell me why I should not weep — why I should not rage and complain! — teach me, if you can, why I should be patient, — why I must endure unto the end that I may be saved! If you are not liar, humbug, pharisee, hypocrite, as so many of my teachers and preachers have been, and are, help me as you help yourself, for I need all the help that you can give!”

  And he, the newly-aroused soul bent on the serving of Christ, heard and answered. There was no moment of time lost with him. Sunday after Sunday his little church was crowded, — Sunday after Sunday the ‘fiery tongues’ that descended at the first Pentecost, seemed alike to descend upon him, for he uttered such fearless, passionate, straight truths concerning the heresies and growing wickedness of the present so-called ‘civilization’ which he prophesied was rapidly drawing to its climax and fall, and conveyed them to his hearers in words and sentences of such rich and powerful eloquence, that they clung to the memory and sank deep into the mind. All through that summer, hundreds had to be turned away from the church because there was not even standing room. Extra services were held, and once every fortnight Everton preached what he called a ‘secular sermon’ in the school-room, which proved to be such an attraction that people gathered from far and near to hear him, and would have gladly paid money for their seats if he would have accepted it, but he would not. And so, instead of gold and silver, they brought by way of tribute and thank-offering, the loveliest flowers to lay on his murdered wife’s grave, which was now marked by a plain white marble cross, laid recumbent on the ground, though raised just enough to allow the sun to reflect and shape its shadow on the grass. The memory of Azalea had become hallowed by the pity and remorse of the villagers, and they took a pride in making the place where her mortal remains were buried, look like a beautiful little fairy field of blossom. The Vicar noted their care and tenderness, but said nothing, not even in thanks. He felt it sorely that they had misunderstood the poor little woman when she was alive, — this strewing of roses and lilies on her grave was the expression of a regret that came too late.

  Twelve months flew by with unprecedented rapidity so far as Everton himself was concerned, and the changes wrought in Shadbrook during that space of time were almost as amazing as the swiftly spreading fame of his preaching. For one thing, Minchin’s Brewery had received its deathblow. By twos and threes the shareholders withdrew themselves and their cash from the concern, — labor could only be obtained intermittently, and never for long periods
, as the rumor that the ‘yard’ was haunted had, like all such rumors, become so emphasized by constant repetition that it was now generally accepted as a fact. The horrible ghost of Dan Kiernan, mangled and bleeding, had been seen wandering among the piled-up beer-casks, and bending over the vats, — at least so the different ‘hands,’ casually employed from different neighborhoods, were ready to say and to swear, both in and out of their ‘cups.’ And from the Brewery the ‘phantom’ flavor seemed to have reached the beer, — for orders grew less and less, and even Mr. Topper of the ‘Stag and Crow’ public-house one day declared in a burst of confidence that ‘Minchin’s Fourpenny’ wasn’t what it used to be. —

  “The fact is, I can’t sell it,” — he said— “And I’ve told Minchin so. Something’s got to be done, or we’ll have to shut up shop. Custom’s falling off cruel!”

  This was a fact. The Shadbrook working-men, farmhands and agricultural laborers alike, had begun to fight shy of their ‘publics.’ Some of them kept up the habit of taking a daily glass at one or other of the convenient bars — but it was only a glass and not, as formerly, several glasses. The offer of so much ‘free beer’ in the twenty-four hours tempted no one to work at the Brewery, — and when the Vicar one day quietly announced the opening of a small gymnasium and billiard-room in the village, which with the, ready assistance of Squire Hazlitt he had managed to make out of two dismantled but picturesque old cottages turned into one building, the young men gladly flocked there of an evening and gave themselves up to wholesome sports and exercises, and were well content with the excellent coffee and mild tobacco provided for their refreshment during the games. Here would come old ‘Mortar’ Pike in his wheeled chair, to witness the exhibition of such feats of strength as he had once been famous for, and in his feeble, wheezy voice he would comment upon and criticise the falling-off of ability and suppleness among the youth of the present day.